


She is Thankful for the Storm

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: Murphy’s Law states that, given the opportunity, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. An epigram of impalpable generalizations, such an adage doesn’t usually intimidate her. Today, however, she has succumbed to being Murphy himself.





	She is Thankful for the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Most likely set in mid-season 2. Also, I'm not great at giving titles to things.

Luck, fate, good fortune, what have you, has not been on her side lately. So far out of reach, out of her grasp, favorable circumstances given the impression that they were unattainable, implausible. If she had believed in such a thing, she may have thought that the universe was out to get her.

She’s had her fair share of setbacks and adversity recently, some minor but some significant, this particular escapade included. She didn’t intend to spend the night in a motel in Small Town, New Hampshire; truthfully, she’d hoped that by the time she arrived, things would have been open and shut, permitting her to set the course back for home. She didn’t plan on the airport misplacing the overnight bag she’d packed just in case, regrets being the one to voluntarily check her luggage when the plane ran out of storage in the overhead compartments. She didn’t anticipate the weather, either, her umbrella resting comfortably against the entry wall to her apartment. She’s usually more equipped to handle such situations, the compact toothbrush and toothpaste in her purse the only exception to her apparent lack of preparation.

This case had been open and shut, too, unnecessary autopsies confirming ritualistic murders, a blatant confession from the man responsible. No x-file, her trek, the hour-and-a-half flight at six thirty this morning and two additional hours in a rental car, after an hour of arguing with airport staff over her lost luggage and another hour of waiting in line to obtain said rental car, had been pointless. It wasn’t enough that her desire to return back to Washington that evening had been crushed by the late-evening hour of the confession, but delays at the airport, courtesy of the storm, made it impossible for them to get home before dawn. A small, potential win extinguished by a criminal and weather; it seemed to be the story of her life.

Murphy’s Law states that, given the opportunity, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. An epigram of impalpable generalizations, such an adage doesn’t usually intimidate her. Today, however, she has succumbed to being Murphy himself.

She whispers a prayer to herself before she attempts the mad dash across the motel parking lot. Normally, her and Mulder having rooms on opposite sides of a motel’s property wouldn’t be an issue. Except for the rain, and the fact that she needs to borrow something from him.

He had been understanding, uncharacteristically so, at her request to meet him in New Hampshire the day after he intended to fly out. She had dinner plans with her mother and her sister, plans she didn’t want to break; she had told herself, after her return from being taken, that she was going make her family more of a priority again. And he had agreed. Insisted, in fact.

Her partner is something of a mystery, more so than usual, has been since she was released from the hospital. He seems to be a mixture of relief and potential, anticipation following her return. But she could also feel his apprehension, irresoluteness radiating, seeping through the pores of his skin, as if touching her would burn him and break her all at once. As if she is fragile, like she just woke up from a coma; in his defense, she did, but the last thing she wants, needs, is having him make her feel inferior, lesser than she once was. Their partnership cannot change simply because she lost a portion of time in her life, and she is surprised that he expects it to. Everyone else is treating her with extreme caution; she wants at least one person to look at her for who she was and still is, still can be. She’d hoped that person would be him.

The rain is unrelenting, much like the beliefs of her partner, the reason she’s standing here contemplating in the first place, and she lets out a frustrated, poignant sigh, mentally running through her options one final time. Really, there aren’t any options except for the one; she knows that she’s going to plunge into the storm anyway, eventual soaking-wet clothes be damned. Her prayer is that she doesn’t slip and fall in the middle of the parking lot, pavement slick beneath her three-inch heels.

Rain, growing up on the west coast, California, for that matter, always brought a sense of reluctance. Though she was accustomed to detachment, as the daughter of a Navy captain, and the ability to alter her mindset at a moment’s notice, also a side-effect of having a Navy captain for a father, the rain always threw her, caught her off guard. The one California stereotype that held true during her childhood was the lack of rain, the perfect weather. It was rare, the rain, and she never quite knew how to handle it, a contradiction to her stoic, collected personality. Old habits, apparently, die hard.

Her walk across the parking lot, illuminated only by two street lights, despite its expanse, is brisk, not quite a run, but she doesn’t want to be caught in this rain any longer than absolutely necessary. She huffs out a sigh of relief once she’s in front of his door and under the protection of the overhang.

She feels vulnerable and slightly humiliated that she’s coming to him like this, drenched to the bone as the heavens release their shower, torrentially ravaging her suit. The second her hair dries, she knows it’s going to be a curly, frizzy, volume-induced mess. She’s fairly positive her mascara is running. Her attempt to shake the water off her body reminds her of her childhood dog, emerging from Pacific Ocean waves and running along the shore, the salty sea trailing behind him, the contortion of his body as he freed himself of the soggy feeling. She’s trembling from the cold, frigid December night air, her breath puffing in front of her. A shower would warm her up. But so would sweatpants. With her second silent prayer, she pleads that he has an extra pair.

The knock is tentative at first, but increases in confidence as she regains her composure. She’s in the process of convincing herself that her impending request is completely normal, nothing momentous. When he opens the door, she’s suddenly perturbed.

"Scully, you’re soaked.” He’s dragging her past the threshold of the door frame, padding his way to the bathroom before she can get a word out, dripping onto the carpet just inside the door. He re-emerges from the bathroom, foregoing turning off the light as he materializes in front of her. He offers her the towel he retrieved, but she just stands there, frozen, apparently, teeth chattering. He unfolds the towel and quickly gathers her hair, squeezing the remnants of the storm onto the plushness, wrapping it around her shoulders after what he deems is a sufficient amount of time. Her feet are digging into the carpet so hard she wonders if the spikes of her heels are going to catch, poke holes through the flooring.

She grabs a corner of the towel from in front of her, suddenly aware that her limbs are capable of movement, and begins to dry off her face, removing traces of makeup that the rain didn’t catch. She finds it impossible to look at him now, mentally chiding herself for thinking he would acquiesce to her request. He’s been incredibly gentle, considerate, since her return, as much as it's bothered her. Why, now, would she suspect he be anything less? The doubt that fills her is overwhelming, its meaning unsettling.

“I was wondering if I could borrow something to sleep in?”

It sounds silly when she says it out loud, feels like she’s in high school again, asking to wear her boyfriend’s jacket. She feels as if she should explain, as he is not her boyfriend but rather her co-worker. Potentially her friend, absolutely, again, convincing herself, nothing more. But he already knows that she doesn’t have any spare clothes. The blush that spreads across her cheeks doesn’t help dissuade whatever she’s feeling, make the connotations of her words any more ambiguous. If he notices the change in color of her skin, in the dim, soft light of the motel room, he doesn’t comment; but then again, she refuses to look at him, unbeknownst of his reaction to her questions, his reaction to her reaction of her question.

She hears him shuffle across the carpet again, the zip of his suitcase, and breathes out a sigh of relief, a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. The sound of the contact his hands make with the edges of his bag as he sifts through his clothes is almost music to her ears.

She looks up from the spot on the floor on which her eyes had fixated, just in time for him to present her with a white t-shirt and charcoal gray sweatpants. She feels like weeping when her hands make contact with the softness of the material, the light fleece that lines the sweatpants.

“Thanks.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, afraid of betraying her indifferent, but profoundly grateful, exterior. She’s determined to exude professionalism; this is what partners are for, lending the other clothes when respective suitcases disappear. She would do it for him, although she doubts that he would fit in her collared, satin pajama sets. The picture in her mind forms the beginnings of a slight chuckle.

She turns back toward the door, bracing herself for the onslaught of the downpour that will greet her the moment she exits the confines of his room. His fingertips against her wrist, however, grabbing, but not forcefully, root her in place not two steps from her escape. “You can’t go back out there.” It is not a demand, but rather a simple observation. She had not thought this far, what to do with herself if she actually obtained a change of clothes from him, even with playing the scenario in her head.

“Those clothes won’t make it back to your room dry.” He’s sticking with the observations, basic facts; he’s speaking her language. He’s gotten through to her, she’s convinced. Almost.

“Mulder, it’s quite all right, I don’t want to impose… I need to shower… I, I left my toothbrush in my purse.” Her head is telling her that her excuses are weak, pathetic even. She wishes she could convince herself, say it out loud, that she would rather have some time to herself right now. Her voice comes up short.

He lets go, satisfied that she doesn’t appear to be planning to make a run for it, and rummages through his suitcase on more time, pulling out a toothbrush from its depths. “Here, I always have a spare.” He places it on top of the clothes he's given her. "Just use my toothpaste. It's already in the bathroom." She wonders when and how he became the responsible one.

The room has two beds, she notices for the first time, and though she’s curious, she doesn’t question it. The bed on the left is disheveled, messy; if he is a hurricane, the bed was the eye. The one on the right untouched, not a hospital corner or pillow out of place.

“C’mon, Scully, it will all be pointless if you try to go back to your room. Just stay here. I won’t bite.” Playful, but sincere. Fox Mulder in a nutshell.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right out.” She lifts the pile of his clothes in gesture, indicating her intentions. She toes out of her heels, abandoning them chaotically by the door, and heads toward the bathroom. The towel bar is empty, one around her shoulders and the other crumpled on the floor in between the tub and the toilet; she hangs her clothes over the rod, in effort to prevent any more wrinkles from befalling her suit and top. She wrings out her hose and her undergarments in the sink, laying them flat on the counter to dry. She should feel embarrassed, she thinks, that her underwear will be in plain sight. She tries not to psychoanalyze why she doesn’t.

She intends on taking her time in the shower, but it was initially just her excuse to get warm. There are fresh clothes on the other side of the curtain and a questionable, albeit appealing, bed on the other side of the wall, waiting for her, beckoning her. She threads her fingers through her hair, trying to alleviate the tangles, gives her face one final scrub with a washcloth, but that is the extent of her time under the spray. Covering herself in fleece and cotton is far more tempting.

When she returns from the bathroom, waistband of the pants rolled three times to keep them on her hips, engulfed in his shirt, a blanket, presumably from the closet, and a pair of socks, presumably from his suitcase, rest at the foot of the bed. Another example of his consideration, lately. She unfolds the blanket and turns back the comforter, downy soft. Before she climbs in, she turns back to the other bed, sees him curled on his side, facing the wall, but closer to her. His glasses are on the side table between the beds, lamp on the dimmest setting, enough light for her to avoid tripping on anything as she made her way to her place of slumber. She slides beneath the sheets, putting on the socks before twisting to shut off the lamp. The rain is moderate against the roof, lulling her. She mirrors his posture in her own bed.

“Scully?” The murmur of her name, the sound of his voice penetrates the near-silence, but it is warm, welcomed, and cuts into her like the first slice of an apple pie that’s fresh from the oven. She hears the rustle of the sheets as he, she assumes, turns over to face her, the stretch of empty space separating the beds. “I’m sorry you came all the way out here when it turned out to be nothing. And I’m sorry you had a day from hell.”

She smiles in response and moves to face him, too. Suddenly disappointed at all the space between them. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Thank you for letting me borrow your clothes. And for letting me sleep here.”

He yawns, almost a Pavlovian response at the mention of sleep, settles further into the sheets. “Hey, what are partners for?” His sleep-induced voice makes her heart skip a beat. She is comforted. She tucks into herself, burrowing under the blankets, and for the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Perhaps, her luck is changing. But she doesn’t believe that kind of thing.


End file.
